


The Rest Is Silence

by josiepug



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, season 2 episode 1 coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiepug/pseuds/josiepug
Summary: Tommy survives. It's what he does. But London is not like Small Heath, and Tommy's instincts can only get him so far. If only he minded.





	The Rest Is Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This is Tommy's perspective during the beating he receives from Sabini's men at the beginning of season 2. It is short and pointless and not particularly revelatory. I just felt like it. So I wrote a thing. Please enjoy.

It felt like it rained more often than not these days. Tommy pulled the brim of his cap lower and told himself that that couldn’t be true. It was Flanders that was pressing down on him, and Her. Small Heath would always be what it was.

Soon he would be done with it.

Polly was afraid of Solomons and Sabini, and she was right to be. But Tommy had done his research. Tommy had thought, like he always did, and they had weaknesses. Sabini was powerful and ruthless, but too likely to lose his head with no one in his gang man enough to stand up to him. Solomons played at madness too, but Tommy wasn’t so sure about him. He had heard of many flavours of madness and held them as they cried, but not Solomons’. His weakness was not insanity, but his appreciation for the theatre of it all. He referred to his rum as bread. That was important. That had flair. The beginnings of a plan were already forming in Tommy’s mind, and he quickened his pace, making his way towards his car.

There was a gun between his eyes.

Automatically, Tommy raised his hands in surrender. Which of his enemies was this? Could Sabini have learned that he had contacted Solomons or was this retribution for the Club? Or not the Italians, but the IRA?

It would be helpful if the man would speak, but there wasn’t time for that.

Two steps of surrender, then a punch. The man reared back, and Tommy pressed his advantage. He didn’t have one for long. A second man landed on his back, pulling him away. He couldn’t say that he was surprised. Whoever the assassins were, they had been ready for him.

A solid crack to the jaw, and the second one fell back. But there were more coming, two he thought, but Tommy’s whirring, calculating brain was draining out. There was nothing but him, and these men, and this grimy dark alley.

That was the funny thing about the War. Tommy had been a Sergeant Major. He’d made decisions, saved lives and lost them, but the real war, the one fought with sweat and blood, involved no thinking at all. No strategy when there were four men bearing down on you. No training. No principles. No plans.

Just instinct. 

And whatever Tommy thought his brain wanted in the light of day or the dark of his nightmares, his instincts wanted him to stay alive.

Just now, they were telling him he wasn’t doing a very good job. He grunted and grabbed for a man’s face, but another pulled him back, then pushed him into his fellow. One of them landed a blow to his cheek, and Tommy lost track of which way was up. When his balance returned, his hands were behind his back.

He kicked wildly, his limbs pumping frantically even as his brain told him that he wasn’t going to get out of this. He was well aware of his own abilities, and they did not extend to four on one. Was there a fifth? His nose was bleeding and he couldn’t tell.

He twisted someone’s thumb backwards and felt their grip slacken. He stumbled towards freedom, flight the only option. Another pair of hands grabbed him, another punch. He was too slow. He probably had a concussion, he thought dispassionately as another of his kicks went wild.

He hated when his brain stopped working right.

It was his best weapon.

He really needed a better weapon.

Something to cut off arms, preferably. Razor blades wouldn’t do the trick, and there were hands everywhere. He tried to bite at one, failed.

“Fucking ‘old ‘im!” A voice shouted. Tommy tried to remember if he recognised the voice, then tried to remember how to breathe as a knee took him in the stomach. 

A punch to the face. That was well-aimed, he thought, before his knees buckled. He folded quickly, realising instinctively that being this low down left his ribs exposed. There were arms pulling him apart, keeping him from protecting himself. Kick, kick, punch. A sort of rhythm. A symphony of pain. Grace had wanted there to be singing.

He rolled over, and that just made it worse. There was something hot in his mouth. He tried to spit it at them. Blood ran into his nose, and he choked. Who were they again? Germans, no Italians.

His father had never hit him this hard.

He was outlined in agony. There were too many legs, too many of them. Polly had said not to mess with London. Polly was always never always right. He couldn’t see. There was blood in his lungs. Why did ribs float the way they did?

He was going to die.

The realisation did not arrive with a kick or a blow to the head. It sort of floated in, drifting with the muck of Small Heath. The muck he came from, and the much that would take him back. 

From dust to dust.

The blows stopped. Was he already dead? No, he was in too much pain. It could be Hell—

Someone hoisted him up from under the arms. They had stopped hitting him. He didn’t know why. No one ever stopped. There was blood dripping out of his mouth. A hand in his hair. The world lurched.

“Tommy Shelby.” That was his name. He should be listening. He cracked open his eyes. It was difficult and not very helpful. All he could see were blurred shapes. That voice was coming from in front of him. “I missed you at my club. I was at the races.”

Grace was at the races. No, Grace was in America. No, Tommy wasn’t supposed to think of Her. She was gone. Forgotten. He had forgotten—London. He shouldn’t mess with London. He had anyway. Then this was—

“Sabini.” He hadn’t intended to say it out loud. Blood was tickling its way down the back of his throat. He couldn’t take it back, not any of it.

“Don’t say my name. Jesus,” Sabini said. Not like it mattered. Not like any of it mattered. The alleyway was getting darker. Was it still raining?

“Franco, take my name out of his mouth.” His voice sounded very far away. Tommy was having trouble understanding. He should be planning, talking his way out of this. Talking—

There were hands in his mouth. He tried to bite, but couldn’t. Then there was something cold and hard and metal, mixing slickly with the blood.

“While you’re in there, do a bit of digging for gold. Pay for the petrol.” Tommy knew those words, but he couldn’t string them into a coherent thought. And then he couldn’t think at all because the metal was digging into his gums and his mouth was on fire and why hadn’t they just beaten him to death. 

He thought he screamed, but he couldn’t be sure the noise made it out of his mouth. The dark alleyway had gone white. And then the metal was gone and the pain receded just enough to allow him wretch. Another blow and he was doubled over, trying to puke his insides out before Sabini pulled them out for him. 

“See how much I know about you? I even know what’s in your fucking mouth!” No one can know a person’s thoughts except that person’s spirit. Dust floating through the sunlit church. A thousand years ago. Deaths ago. Resurrections ago. Before the burial. Clawing out. Surviving. Undying.

“Look at me!” He was screaming, pulling Tommy’s head up. He thought his eyes were open, but he couldn’t see. Couldn’t see through the mud. The blood.

“You take up with the Jews. Yeah, you think that’s what London’s all about. You can just come down, pick a side. You fucking clown! Now your life is over. My face is the last thing you’ll ever see on Earth.” But that wasn’t true. Tommy couldn’t seen Sabini. He could see Her face, the very last time. Away it goes.

He was going to die.

“Your mistake. You remember that when you get to hell.” Gravity swooped, but Tommy had stopped caring. It was annoying, really, that Sabini was right. He was a fool, but Tommy was worse. It was his mistake. He had let her go. He had let Campbell go. He had been soft and blind when he should have cold and vigilant. He had hurt them. Polly and Arthur and John and Finn. 

Forgive me God for I have—

There was no God. A funny thing to forget when you were dying. Tommy wasn’t sure whether the pain was going away or he was. He was going to die. They would be all alone. Polly would protect them. But who would—

“Finish him.”

Not Tommy Shelby.

And just like that, it was gone, the fear, the guilt. The pain was there, but that didn’t matter. Pain was just the messenger. The sound of a gun cocking, giving him a gentle warning. The survival instinct, the one that had dug him out of Flanders’ fields and pointed him at Billy Kimber and pulled him out of sweet-smelling nightmares, had finally given up.

Blood choked his exhale. One more inhale. And then there would be silence. The war was over, the hourglass empty, the minutes run dry. Nothing more to fight for. Nothing more to break, nothing more to lose.

In the bleak midwinter. A mantra, a promise, a thank you. The secret password.

Tommy Shelby was finally free.

And then the shots rang out, and not one of them had the courtesy to silence him. 

Darkness came to claim Tommy, but not before the noose tightened around his neck once more, holding him tight. He wasn’t going to die.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are a valid substitute for real world love.


End file.
